An Empire of Traitors
by Emperor's Forsaken
Summary: I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery. - unknown... (Review)
1. Chapter 1

The Storm Raven arced gracefully through the sky, despite its strange angled nature it was an elegant craft, skimming over the ocean on its approach to Piscini Secundus. A huge city floated atop the unending sea. Silhouetted black against the incredible blue. The Inquisitor gripped tight as the craft shot into the sky, circling the small number of buildings that served as a space marine outpost.

The craft descended slowly onto the parade ground. She wasn't sure whether this was merely to increase the tension or not, either way she enjoyed it. Huge red walls rose up on either side as they dropped down, as if they were any use against the real enemy.

With a heavy thud the craft landed, the landing gear hissed as it took the weight of the craft in the increased gravity. The door fell slowly down, revealing the splendid blue of this world's atmosphere. The buildings were all small, only three stories at most, all of old gothic architecture. A back water if ever there was one.

Alone stood a man in dark green ceramite. He wore no helmet, only the scars of battle. His face looked anxiously towards the inquisitorial symbols on the craft. The Inquistor stepped from the ramp, touching grey paving gingerly as she got used to natural gravity once again. Her black clothes bore the insignia of an Inquisitor, she was not someone you wanted to meet, even in good circumstances.

Two warriors descended after her, instantly recognizable as the Grey Knights, their halberds clasped tightly across their chests. "Servants of an Inquisitor, there is no honour in that" he thought, he would have spat if an sliver was left in his mouth.

She grinned manically at him as her minions advanced.

"Brother Sergeant Samuel, we need to speak with you." She instructed.

The last thing he saw was the end of a halberd about to make contact with his face.

Samuel awoke naked on the floor. Its cold smooth surface was slick with blood, staining its flawless surface. A light warbled between harsh and bright and total darkness. The walls were those of a ship. Though he couldn't be sure where they were, only the shudder of engines indicated that this was only a small vessel. Other than that the only noise he could hear were the screams of someone, or something. In the corner lay a pile of armour, the armour of a space marine, but somehow not. Its light grey surface was pot-marked with centuries of scars, the wolf and the moon on its left shoulder told of its origin. It was old, incredibly old.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in this cell, only that ever nerve in his body seemed to be screaming in agony. He grimaced as he picked himself up, sitting back against the wall he considered his fate.

He almost certain to die as were all who were "spoken to" by the inquisition. They were spoken of in hushed whispers in every corner of the Imperium. No one was safe from their infernal piety, as far as they were concerned, there was no innocence, only varying degrees of guilt. Whatever they thought Samuel had done, they were almost certain to convict him of it, not that that mattered anyway.

He felt his nose where they had hit him, sure enough it was broken. He reached up and snapped it back into place with a crack, he grinned as he did, they were sure to be watching.

The door slid open with a gentle hiss. The inquisitor stepped through with her body guards. A pedestal ascended from the floor and she sat atop it. Crossing her legs lazily. She smiled curtly before producing a data tablet. There was a minute of silence as they studied one another.

She was in a strange way beautiful, but almost certainly clinically insane as far as samuel was concerned. Her hair was tied behind her face and her uniform immaculately pressed, speaking of indoctrination and efficiency. She was here to do a job, no matter what means she had to use, she'd get it done. Her smile was genuine, the surgeons had done their work, not eve a space marine could resist the torture she had planned for him, interrogation was more than just a job to her, it was an art form.

She looked down upon her prey.

"Samuel?" She questioned

He grinned, "What happened to Brother SERGEANT Samuel!"

He howled in agony as pain flowed through his body, inhabiting his every extremity, filling his chest and piecing his mind. It stabbed at his conscious being. She grinned back at him, releasing a button on her data slate. The pain stopped, leaving a sour aftertaste.

"Samuel, wit is certainly not one of your strong points." she spoke softly, "now are you going to answer properly."

"I may do." he smiled.

"YES, INQUISITOR." she shouted as she pressed down on her data slate, raising up from her seat in a fit of anger. The pain came again, he clenched his hands tightly as he felt his muscles twitch in response. It stopped. He breathed deeply, releasing his grip. Blood dropped from his hand, splashing loudly as it impacted the wet floor. He could taste a strong metallic flavour as deep red liquid dripped lethargically from his lips.

"What were you doing on the Sentinel Worlds?" She asked calmly, her demeanor returned to its previous state.

"Chapter Business." He replied "Ask Azriel"

Her face dropped.

She held down the button as she stood up. "Give him another week." The agony returned, his nostrils flared as he watched her leave. Slowly the pain dissipated, allowing him respite. He looked up to see a grey boot of ceramite. His head rebounded off the wall as it smashed into his face. He dropped to the floor, the guards walked out, the door sliding sluggishly into place behind them.

He felt his nose.

Frak, its broken again.

The sentinel worlds, he thought, that was a failure of a mission, no contacts, no artifacts recovered, not even a sighting of anything unusual. Such was the case with informants, often they spouted false statements to obtain money or favour. For two weeks they'd scanned the area, but found no signs of corruption, so signs of the great enemy.

He frowned. Would inquisition really risk openly attacking a space marine chapter as powerful as the Dark Angels. Although he knew they were suspicious of its secretive inner workings and the control it exerted over its successors, but suspicion alone would not suffice when a Chapter Master became involved.

He snapped his nose back into place again.

He was sure he'd find out soon enough, whether he wanted to or not. Whatever happened there was little hope that he would survive this encounter.

The inquisitor ascended to the bridge. The requisitioned crew nervously glanced at their temporary masters, a tall slim woman, fear incarnate, who could order the cleansing of whole worlds, along with her two trusted warriors, towering over 8 feet tall, their armour as hard as a tank. They were faster than any human could possibly be, impossibly strong, with super human reflexes. Truly a fearsome sight to behold, voices became whispers in their presence, the crew was aware of the prisoners on the lower decks, they'd heard their screaming in the darkness, in the artificial night.

In front of her sat rows of servitors and crewmen, furiously working, not daring to meet the gaze of this harridan. In the centre of the room was a throne like structure, it teemed with wires and circuitry, screens and dials filled its arms along with a small monitor that folded away from view as they approached. The chair spun to reveal a stumpy man, his naval blues pressed in a haphazard fashion and hair streaked with grey. His face was unwelcoming, wrinkled with age and hardened by years of Imperial Bureaucracy.

He glared at her. "Inquisitor Kalloris, have you established our destinations from your…conversations…?"

"As a matter of fact Captain, I do." She smiled politely at him, "The Sentinel Worlds."

The captain looked at her suspiciously, wondering what she could be interested in there. He paused. "You realize there has been a major raiding fleet operating there recently?"

"I realize this captain, it is my job to ask questions, and your job to obey orders is it not?"

"It is Ma'am, however this is merely a frigate, its designed for speed not combat!"

"Captain, I will not repeat my order."

He glanced at her in contempt, before turning to his crew. There was little love lost between the Navy and the Inquisition, especially when it came to requisitioning vessels. His Fury had been chosen because it was fast, an upgraded variant of the Firestorm Class Frigate with a much more efficient engine, allowing greater power to the engines and lances. Although instability had proved a problem for many of those upgraded, bless the Omnissiah he had never had problems.

She watched him expectantly, a grin crept on to her face.

"Very well, helmsman, our destination is the Sentinel Worlds."

"Yes, Captain" came the quick reply. The ship shook gently as it was brought about. The captain relaxed into his chair as the Inquisitor walked out, satisfied her will was being done. It usual took around nine days for a ship to navigate the strange eddies and flows around the Eye of Terror, His Fury would do it within the week.

He stood up, brushing himself off before setting off towards his quarters. He felt the ship jolt as it jumped into the warp. He pulled a pendant from his pocket and rubbed it gently. Another trip in the warp, another smooth passage he hoped.

The ship was relatively well kept, certainly the best of his many postings. He'd served on board as 1st Mate, and then Captain for the last four years. It corridors were smooth and showed little sign of damage and almost none of repairs. Then again this vessel was used mainly for transportation by the navy as part of a much larger squadron. Its speed was an excellent asset and although it lacked the strength or survivability of a cruiser, it could certainly fend off much larger vessels with its powerful lances.

For the moment he was happy, even if the Inquisitor was taken them into danger, his crew had proved on every occasion that they were up to the task, and anything they couldn't kill they could easily outrun.

The door to his quarters slid open to reveal a comfortable billet. A large room furnished in smooth mahogany like wood, large screens and data slates decorated the desk, "certainly a lovely place to spend as much time as possible" he thought. Removing his boots and feeling the rug he had laid on the cold metal floor before dropping onto the bed.

Sleep took him almost instantly, it had been an intense few days.


	2. Chapter 2

Godfrey watched as his men dug firing positions in the rock hard dirt, its frozen surface fighting the guardsmen every inch. He smiled, he loved his men, and in return they served him as best they could. He'd joined them at 24, son of a noble house requisitioned by the Tallarn Desert Raiders. Despite serving for only ten years he was a hardened veteran, having visited many warzones, though this was the furthest he had been from home. No one had wanted this deployment, the Sentinel Worlds, so close to the Eye of Terror that whole armies went mad and turned on one another, soldier's dreams were haunted with their own deaths and all the while the forces of Chaos raided the penal colonies and mining platforms that made up humanities presence in the cluster of stars.

The cold bit hard at his bones and the wind burnt across his face. He pulled his shemagh close over his face. His hands were more like numb blocks as he slung his autogun over his shoulder and shoved them deep into his fur lined pockets. Even with all the benefits of wealth he was struggling to keep warm, he couldn't comprehend how his men survived with only the substandard issue of the Imperial Guard.

He wondered over towards his command tank. Converted from a chimera it was a jungle of data screens teeming restlessly with data. The rear doors closed slowly behind him, bathing the cabin in red fluorescence. The man before him was a young man, of a lesser noble house, he'd been drafted into the Desert Raiders for his 4 years of service, as a favor to a friend he had taken the man in as his radio operator, one of the relatively safe jobs within the company. The man visibly shivered even in the relative warmth of the chimera. He wasn't the best guardsmen, but he was competent with communications and able to repair many malfunctions on the temperamental command equipment, which as with all things in the Imperium, was less than guardsman proof.

Godfrey laid a hand gently on his shoulder, picking up a mug from the desk and taking a long slurp, savoring its warm contents. The strange liquid slid down his throat, not quite coffee, not quite tea, but somewhere in between. Three months ago he'd run out of his private stash of tea that he'd acquired on his last stint of leave, now he was consuming what could most accurately be described as mildly flavored hot water, and questionably be called coffee. None the less he enjoyed the brief warmth it brought to his chilled extremities.

"Ethanniel, have you received further communications from battle group HQ or our scout party?" He inquired with the signaler, studying the data now flashing before him.

"No sir, orders from there ceased about an hour ago, though could be the effects of the storm." He replied, looking nervously up at the major.

"Yes, it could be." He frowned as he tapped one of the screens. "Except that the vessels have stopped in orbit around this moon."

"What do you want us to do?" He questioned, looking for guidance from his leader. A man that the whole company trusted, he'd led them through some terrible places and out the other side, he'd do the same here.

"Broadcast on all VHF vox channels, try and reach any Imperial formations in our area, tell them to RV at Checkpoint Delta 42." He paused for a moment before picking up the inter vehicle comms, "Fox 10A, 20A, 30A, this is 0A, prepare to move to Checkpoint Delta 42 within 10 minutes, come to command vehicle for a quick brief, over."

"10A roger out." "20A roger out." "30A roger out."

He walked over to the map table which lit up in a blue glow. He watched the digital map move as he stroked his hand across the table. He touched a button and a holographic projection ascended from its surface revealing the true extent of his problems. High ground flanked his current position, and although it was a natural bottle neck, it offered little in the way of protection. He studied it carefully, considering his next move, if HQ was gone, he'd have to attempt to rally what was left of the battle group and return to the Inquisitorial Fortress housed 100 clicks from their location.

"Charlie, Charlie, One, this is Fox Zero, radio check over." The voice of Ethan came from the comms suite. Godfrey stopped, waiting for the reply, hoping someone was left. The radio crackled into life, a faint signal full of static, but a signal none the less.

"Fox Zero, this is Dog Zero Alpha, you're okay over."

Godfrey ran over to the comms desk, taking the microphone. Thank the Emperor there was still someone alive.

"Dog Zero Alpha, Fox Zero Alpha, you're broken, information as follows: No word from HQ, moving to Delta 42, Delta 42. Over"

"Roger that Godfrey, I've had no word either, I'm pulling my troops back to a more defendable position. Over."

"Okay, every 30 minutes make radio contact; if you hear nothing then retreat to the fortress, keep the men alive, over."

"Roger, stay safe. Out."

Godfrey sighed, passing the mic back to Ethan. He allowed a grin of confidence before returning to his map, feeling the burden of command more than ever before. The rear doors slowly lowered, bright light shot into the compartment along with the icy wind. He squinted as the three officers entered the cramped space. All were in their early twenties, wore youthful exuberance as if it were issued. Their thick coats tight to their body, topped with body armor, more for warmth than protection, swords dangling loosely from their belts, their signature of command.

"Gents, this is going to be quick." he said as they approached. He removed his peaked cap revealing a tangle of blonde hair that accented his prematurely aged face. He waited for the nods from his commanders before continuing. "Situation, we've had no contact with HQ, who are approximately 8 miles south of this location. The scout unit we sent half an hour ago never returned. Telemetry suggests that cruisers have descended into orbit above this moon."

He pointed to a location on the map.

"We're currently here, as you can see we are in a terrible defensive position, and although our orders are to stay in position, if HQ has been destroyed then I have to take command. As such I am pulling to Delta 42. It is the pass that leads to the Inquisitorial Fortress and the only land route North within our operating area. Any enemy forces deployed by the cruisers will have to land south of here or risk the terrain further north."

He enlarged the image of checkpoint 42, allowing the subalterns to study the map briefly before continuing.

"The southern face of the mountains on the left flack are accessible to tracked vehicles, I want a 1 platoon to deploy there with the majority of our mobile artillery." He looked expectantly at one of the lieutenants.

"Roger sir." He replied after taking a moment to let the information sink in.

"2 and 3 platoon you will deploy in the pass, leaving a heavy weapons unit and squad each to guard the rear. The defenses should already have a small contingent of guardsmen on it, but they'll be glad of our support."

"Yes sir." They replied in unison. The two lieutenants had been together since the Officer Training Academy and unfortunately for them had been sent on their first deployment to this Emperor forsaken place. Few people every saw the Great Storm up close, even fewer lived to tell the tale, fewer still were willing to speak of the experience.

"Delta 42 is three hours away. 1 platoon you will be lead element, spread your chimeras into extended line our main battle tanks protecting the flanks. 2 platoon in the centre with our artillery. 3 platoon take the rear, take a squad of battle tanks and place them at the centre rear of the formation. Keep tight and make sure your men rest as much as they can on the journey."

"Yes sir." came the chorus of replies as the lieutenants rushed off to their men. Godfrey sat back into his chair as the rear door slowly closed. feeling its warm brown leather. He relaxed as the engine rumbled into life. He could hear the call of sergeants and drone of an armoured company preparing for battle. The iron fist of the Imperial Guard. He spun around to a bank of screens, each one linked to a camera on the vehicle's hull. The vehicle jerked brutally as it set off across the fields of snow and ice behind 1st platoon.

Even after all this time he still felt a twinge of excitement about the battle that was almost certain to come. He was a soldier at heart, more at home in the carnage of war than in the warmth of peace, here at least he knew his job, what people expected of him and what he could expect of the men beneath him. It had been years since he'd been back to Tallarn, little remained there for him there, he spent his leave traveling the galaxy with friends he had met, various captains in the Navy and officers in the Guard often offered him sanctuary within their commands.

Visibility was appalling, he could barely make out the flank of the formation through the sleet that was now shooting past the chimera. Even the almighty sound of an armoured column was drowned by the whistle of gusting winds, blustering across the endless expanse that lead towards Delta 42. He turned away from the depressing sight of white that now filled the view screens, watching their lumbering progress on the holomap.

"All is going as you predicted Lord Commander." The shrieking voice of a cultist, his skin filled with tattoos and scars in the shape of runes and symbols, each one seemed unnatural, each more twisted than the last. The man was in terrible pain, his whole being suffered, his soul screamed as if it was being torn from his physical body. He bowed before a huge cloaked figure, the once white fabric now torn and frayed by warfare, stained with blood and mud.

The cultist backed away as the space marine turned towards him revealing an almost beautiful face below his hood, the unholy gift of agelessness was one of the many benefits chaos had seen fit to bestow upon him. He enjoyed the deceptive nature of his features, using it to great advantage, as he would with his current endeavor. The marine nodded in acknowledgement, looking down as the holographic map updated itself with the current locations of troops on the surface.

The Imperial forces had fallen back after their command was destroyed, taking position in the few passes that surrounded the Inquisitorial stronghold. They were unlikely to have sent out an effective distress signal due to bother the warp storm and the snow storm, hell they probably weren't even aware they were under attack.

He had a small strike force stationed to the south in pursuit of an Imperial armored company, they wouldn't be able to effectively destroy the column without the element of surprise that they had used against the HQ elements, but they would be able to fix them in place, and that was all that was required.

He turned to another space marine who stood in the shadows. "Prepare the thunderhawks and drop pods, get the men ready" He ordered, smiling as he prepared to unleash his forces upon the unwitting defenders. Long had this plan being in the making, waiting for the right moment, the Emperor worshipers were so predictable, so flawed. He would take pleasure in doing his masters bidding.

"Commander Kelevra." The marine bowed his head and marched off towards the hangers, his cloak flowing behind him, brushing gracefully across the plasteel floor. For a ton of ceramite his footsteps were quiet, without his armor he was more like a shadow than a man, with it he was a fearsome warrior, as fast as any Kelev had ever seen. He was his loyal friend, and more importantly, a trusted bodyguard, a constant reminder that there was no honor amongst traitors.

He began the short walk to the hangers. footsteps thumping down the corridor. He could hear the daemons and cultists that toiled within the vessel cheering as they felt the blood of the enemy shed. This would only be a cut, another pinprick in the enormity of the Imperium, but wars were not won in great battles, they were won well before that. The deep bowels of the ship echoed with the grinding of decrepit gears and the raging of colossal furnaces, eternally fed by a host of unsightly beings, tortured by the tendrils of the warp.

Following him trundled two minions, small creatures of blue flame, never quite physical but never quite dematerializing. They were a strange but hypnotic sight to behold; strange licks of fire jumped and darted between them in unholy harmony. Yet another reward for services to the dark gods. One held aloft a relic of battle, a glittering blade of unholy power, as old as Kelevra himself, it coursed with ferocity unmatched by any mortal blade. Its pearlescent shine glittered blue and purple, slivers of red darting across the blade as if some serpent explored its metallic prison. The other a winged helmet, an artifact of some lowly loyalist chapter, glittering red lens majestically sprung from its its dark green surface, perfectly shaped with an elegance impossible by all but the most skilled artificers,

The furious whir of engines reverberated through the hanger as he entered. His small raiding force were already embarking, the buzz of battle was almost deafening. Watching his ceramite soldiers ascend their steeds, each a veteran of a thousand wars, he walked purposely towards them. Throughout the galaxy they were feared as the angels of death, the vanguard of destruction.

The thunderhawks were huge aircraft, angled and bristling with weapons, but deceptively maneuverable, just like a space marine. They were the ultimate in orbital landers, the pinnacle of blitzkrieg warfare. Their enormous battle cannons tore holes in enemy formations and their other weapon systems matched those of any battle tank, allowing its deadly cargo to fall upon the enemy before they could react.

The one before him was magnificently decorated; its hull covered in decals of feathers, the wings seemed as if they were of some massive sky predator. Its hull was scorched and blackened in places, riddled with anti-aircraft fire, but still it was an amazing construction, few would not be awestruck by its daunting exterior. It looked distinctly out of place in the ancient interior of a grand cruiser, the tortured form repaired and re-repaired after countless engagements. Rusted and aged it was merely a shadow of its former glory, aesthetics were pointless to its masters, only function mattered in the swirling currents of the Great Eye.

Kelevra turned, removing the sword and helmet from his lackeys. They scurried away, staining the darkness blue as they did so, their strange forms tussling with one another to get in front. Kelevra climbed into the dark compartment, his eyes adjusting quickly, two rows of armored warriors sat obediently for his command.

"For the Emperor!" He laughed gleefully before fixing on his helmet.

 **AN: Hey guys! Hope you enjoy this story I put together so far, review and stuff. Adding another chapter tonight for y'all.**


	3. Chapter 3

Walls of sleet crashed against the concrete battlements on Delta 42. The men huddled in its shelter, casting a nervous glance across the battlements more through fear than duty. The line was dotted with the dark shapes of tanks, silhouetted by the white out of the storm. Battle tanks, chimeras, hellhounds and hydras rose as sentinels above the ramparts.

The checkpoint was a dark grey line stretching across the entrance to the pass, curving inwards towards the center to create a killing zone. Bunkers hunched heavily along the line, their shape more of a grey blob then an actual construct. To the far left stood a watch tower, built into the mountainside, the ground was barely visible in the colorless swirls down below. The windows were battered by the wind, shaking violently in their frames.

Godfrey sighed, it was the best they could do to peer into tempest and hope that nothing came for them.

Several men sat at various consoles, their efforts to contact any other formations were futile. Their voices gradually growing more anxious as the hours passed, the crackling of static like a terrible orchestra. A man stood squinting into the blizzard, his body noticeably trembled, his fingers clasping a flask tightly to his lips. His great coat wrapped closely to him.

"Lieutenant, you are an officer of the Imperial Guard, start acting like one." Godfrey ordered irritanted. The man turned towards him, his eyes seemed haunted and distracted. The cup fell from his hands, clanging heavily onto the floor. The room was silent, the soldiers now watching their leader fall to insanity. The hot liquid drummed loudly as it landed on cold steel.

"They're coming, the darkness, the fear, the ripper, the bearer, the evil." He shrieked in a inhuman voice, tearing at his skin as if trying to release his innards from their fleshy prison. "Only blood can sate them, our blood. YOU WILL ALL DIE HERE!"

The officer jumped at Godfrey, falling to his knees and grasping at the collar of his thick coat.

"RUN! RUN! THERE IS NO HOPE…"

He never finished his sentence as Godfrey drew his sword, slashing up and severing the man's head and arms in one movement. The body limply crashed into the floor, blood gushing across its crisp surface. The head rolled gorily to the steps, dropping 30 meters to the ground and cracking open on impact. Brain matter saturated the floor, melting the ice that had formed there.

Godfrey lowered his blade, blood dripped from it euphorically, each one pounding deafeningly into the puddle that now formed around his boots. He walked grimly towards the loudspeaker terminal, the whole room engrossed in the horror of the event. Darkness seemed to whisper at their minds, biting at their souls, ready to engulf them. It picked at the scabs of their conscious mind, bearing down on their faults and inadequacies, murmuring of deceit and destruction.

The loudspeaker screeched into life. The men prepared themselves, rushing to their positions. Weapons were loaded and cocked. Fires were snuffed out by the heavy boots of guardsmen. The battlements bristled with weapons, bayonets fixed. A thousand tiny spears arrogantly prickled from the rockcrete. The booming voices of platoon sergeants were drowned out by Godfrey.

"Men of Tallarn, your enemy is here. The great enemy. You are soldiers of the Imperium, let yourself not be swayed by the perversion of chaos. You are his light. You are his fire. You are his will. You are his hammer. Faith is your shield from the darkness, do not taint our name by falling prey to their deceptions. Be strong brothers, may the Emperor deliver us."

A loud cheer arose from the men, audible even above the heavy din of the storm. "For Tallarn and the Emperor!"

A great silence followed as wind whistled past the squinting forms of guardsmen, who twitched nervously, each one engrossed in his own rituals of combat. A gunner squirted oil into the working parts of his autocannon, while a marksman whispered rites of battle to his rifle. A sergeant spoke softly to his men, strengthening their resolve. A Leman Russ crew studied their sensors as they loaded the first of many shells into the battle cannon.

A tall silhouette strode arrogantly from the storm. Its thin form smattered with verses of the dark powers. It grinned manically preparing to sacrifice itself upon the alter of blood. It raised its sword in one hand and began to shout. It never finished its first sentence as its head was stripped from its body by a well-aimed sniper shot. The gangly body collapsing into the ice, weeping a pool of red across its white surface.

As if in response hundreds of twisted forms charged from the swirling sleet. Bodies of men warped by chaos, spikes now bristling from their carapace like skin, while some bore wings of inhuman growth and others had mutated to be twice the size of a man, wielding huge rusted axes and swords, their flesh covered in plates of thick armor. Spread throughout were huge ceramite plated men, their red rust armor trimmed in brass, charging manically towards the checkpoint, chain axes spinning wildly above their heads. Above them strode machines of iron, like spiders striding across the battlefield, spouting flames from their arms, some of the cultists below them caught fire, screaming in both agony and pleasure as they burned.

The guard opened up with everything they had. Autoguns rattled and cannons thumped as empty casings sprinkled the battlements, clinking down onto the thick snow which hissed and melted as it contacted the hot brass. Even the might battle cannon was drowned out by the ferocity of the firepower as it blew a sizable hole in the enemy forces.

Godfrey watched from the tower. The chaos cultists growing ever closer to the Imperial lines, even as round after round sliced muscle from bone and tore chunks of flesh from its screaming victims. A metal spider flailed in the center of the mass of red, its limbs laying broken and battered around it while metallic hooks and claws spun outwards, ensnaring the worshipers of khorne and tearing them limb from limb. Red gore spread across the ice, each drop expanding it further still. It crept forward till it reached the grey surface of the battlements, staining the concrete at its base. He heard the artillery finally open fire.

Shells dropped into the center of the enemy army, sending pink mist shooting into the atmosphere. The explosions shook the floor beneath his feet, and yet the horde still kept coming, their insatiable lust for blood driving them onwards. A guardsman ducked below the fiendish talons of a winged beast, sending slug shredding through its body. It collapsed from the sky smashing painfully into the hull of a chimera. Spouts of flame burst from the lines as the cultists got closer. Holy promethium raining down upon them.

A hellhound smashed through the concrete battlements and out onto the plain, spraying an arc of flame before it, incinerating everything in its path. Its dense metal form crushing the corpses below its tracks. In its wake followed two leman Russ, heavy bolters spitting death from their sponsors while the battle cannon annihilated innumerable horrors of the warp. Despite this desperate counter attack the enemy closed in around them.

They hit at that instant. A berserker launching his ceramite form onto the ramparts, cleaving his way through several men as he did so. The battle descended into madness, small groups of men banding together in forlorn hope. Cultists and other unspeakable creatures hacking wildly at the bleeding forms of injured guardsmen. Godfrey began descending the steps, if his men were going to die, he'd go with them in honor.

A huge metal spider descended upon the small spearhead that had pushed through the lines. It burst into a shower of flames as the hellhound fired at it but continued unhindered. Its iron claw hammered into the hull, piecing straight into the crew compartment. The tank exploded as flaming promethium rained down across the nearby cultists.

The leman Russ were now being swarmed by legions of cultists. One slipped and fell onto the track, spinning forwards on the metal links before falling underneath the weight of the tank, its ribs busting open in a fountain of gore. The crew grimaced as the top hatch of the tank was ripped off by the minions of chaos, grenades descended into the darkness of its cockpit. The explosion launched the turret high into the air, its armored shell descending into the masses of chaotic worshipers before the shells that were stored there ignited. The blast sent a shockwave across the battlefield knocking down dozens of the cultists.

The eyes of the insane officer stared accusingly at Godfrey as he passed them and charged out the door. The freezing wind almost blew him off balance as he entered the cold air. Around him was the carnage of battle. Guardsmen were using their rifles as clubs, beating the chaos daemons back to hell, while chimeras and leman Russ ground men and beasts into dust beneath their steel tracks. A group of vehicles had banded together on the rear line of defense, heavy guns ricochet off armor, ripping through the combat, severing limbs and riddling torsos with holes.

A space marine berserker charged at Godfrey, screaming unmentionable tongues of the warp and swinging its axe wildly. Godfrey dropped to a knee as the axe slashed across his body, ducking under its blade he unsheathed his sword, scoring a bloody arc across the marine's chest. It shrieked in joy before collapsing to the ground, the last sight it saw was the peaked cap of an Imperial Officer and his powersword slicing through its neck.

A loud roar was heard above the terrible sounds of battle. Godfrey looked up to see three thunderhawks descending overhead, their brutal appearance and snub nose was conspicuous even in the storm. They dropped low over the carnage before continuing towards the Inquisitorial fortress. He allowed a hopeful smile across his face, the angels of death were here, their fair unshakable, their martial prowess unmatched.

He turned to see a guardsman pull of his helmet as he kneeled above a cultist, smashing it down upon the Chaos minion's face as it furiously snapped at him with sharp fangs of ebony white. The cultist raised its head in anger, but the guardsmen had gone past the point of being angry, he unleashed his rage, his head came down, smashing it in the face, causing blood to spray onto the pure white ground. He pulled a knife from his boot and force it in between the cultist's ribs, plucking out its heart. He stood up smiling at the Major through a grin of red stained teeth before picking up his rifle and charging once more into the fray.

A centre of resistance had been formed just ahead around the two Hydras that the company possessed. Their colossal quad autocannons threw explosive slugs at the enemy, obliterating a dozen enemies in a single burst. Around them stood a ring of survivors, many had picked up weapons from their dead comrades, flame and plasma roared from their ranks as they forced the enemy back.

One of the spiders clambered over the ramparts, its ghastly frame looming over the guardsmen. The Hydra flak guns turned their attention upon it. Its legs breaking and twisting as bolts thumped through its iron shell. It cried in agony as it collapsed in a shriek of twisting metal. Legs barely attached to its body limply trying to raise its body back up. It struggled for a second before another burst of shells removed its limb. Leaving its debris strewn across the battlements.

Godfrey rushed towards them. Rounds cracked past his head from the fire support unit at the rear, he stumbled over the bodies of his men, forcing his way towards the guardsmen. A cultist lunged at him, missing by only inches with its barbed blade. Its horrible face snarled awfully up in realization as the power weapon came thundering down upon him, cleaving him clean in two.

"To the wall" He screamed above the unbearable noise of combat, "TO THE WALL!"

His order was echoed across the line as the guardsmen advanced in line. Steadily they pushed the evil back, cleansing the checkpoint one yard at a time. The burnt corpses stung at Godfrey's nose as the putrid smell of death reigned over the battlefield. The fight was over for now, the last of the cultists and daemons sent scurrying back into the tempest beyond the wall.

As the guardsmen slumped heavily against the wall exhausted from the trials of combat, Godfrey surveyed the damage. Men knelt over their dead friends, tears rolled down their cheeks and prayers passed their lips as they mourned. Some of the tanks smoked from large holes in their hull, some were merely wreckages, burnt and charred, and their crew was but charred remains of humans.

His company was decimated; the men that remained would surely not recover fully from such an event. Few soldiers ever returned from war whole, especially around the Eye of Terror. They wouldn't hold the line if another attack came, he'd need to rally his men here and head towards the fortress, that was their only hope. He looked at the horror etched on the faces of the guardsmen, veterans and raw recruits alike, he'd give them a few moments to collect themselves, it was the least he could do.

He knelt down next to a color sergeant, seemingly one of the highest ranking men left alive. His face hardened against the outside world, but his insides were likely in turmoil about his dead brethren. Godfrey reached out a hand, resting it gently on his shoulder.

"Color, we have to start organizing the men, we're going to fall back to the fortress." He said softly, allowing the words the sink in as the man looked sorrowfully back at him. "I know my friend, but we are soldiers, we must continue."

Godfrey stood up, reaching out a hand to the man, who took it gratefully. All those around just watched in silence, they slowly picked themselves up, following their commander's example. He allowed a comforting smile to cross his lips.

"Soldiers, Brothers. The fallen shall forever be remembered as the Emperor's finest." He shouted above the whistle of the storm. "We are soldiers, and we must continue. We push back to the fortress."


End file.
